KillerVictim
by Queen Lily Rose Fire
Summary: Queen Mary Tudor/Bloody Mary is both victim and Killer, of her own story. However no one is born evil. What lead this promising, ruler into a horrid one? What was the straw that finally brock the camels back? In this fictional story through her life we see a victim turn into a tirant, doomed to be shadowed by gender, popularity, and finally history.


The farthest memory within me is quit fitting. Glancing up, seeing the cross on top the alter, beautifully illuminated by the color glass window, created a humbling move within me. High above, the windows confront the God fearing people, as they are made to do. 

I the daughter of a king, and granddaughter of the righteous Queen Isabella, have every right to be so proud, so bold. 

Next to my dear mother, within mass, I happily know her prayers. They say she prays for another male heir, or rather a male heir that will live to carry England on. Which is true, but she is still a mother, she prays for me, her daughter. 

Often she calls me her War Lion Cub. A perfect marriage of my birthright, as my father's heir, and my mother's daughter, half Spanish, half English.

I now of seven years old, has spent my dinner alone, surrounded by my maids, and nurses. No music playing tonight. Mother feels I shouldn't spend too much time within a luxurious life style, when I am but a servant of God. Father seems a bit annoyed whenever she puts God before him, when he innocently wants to spoil me. I wish I could have more music, I so talented in music am not allowed to be distracted by it. Is it really a sin? Vanity, yes. 

Shortly after being put to bed, I laid there, unable to sleep. My ladies were in the next room, gossiping to one another. Admitting their sins to each other, not a preist...yet they seem a bit proud of it. Shameless mice turns to rats after midnight. It is only when my govorness retires early do they confess. 

I have a secret diary, I take joy in documenting these sins. If it is God's will, I a future English Queen, take practice in writing what I believe to be a just punishment to both English law and God's law. 

Often I write to go beneath the alter, pray and admit their wrong doing. Sometimes it's a sneaky daughter who has slept with a man who was not her husband, or them themselves. Once or twice I've heard such things, mercifully. I'd report to my mother of this, as soon as I get to see her. Only once that I remember a sinful wretch was dismissed. The second time my mother's reaction was quit different, truly shocking. Her face wasn't of shock her anger, it was pain and hurt. Looking down to the floor, with shame I only stared waiting for her to react in a more sensible way. But no she was calm. This annoyed me, greatly. 

Looking at her with frustration and confusion, my mother only pushed my hair back, dotingly loving me, with tears welling in her eyes. Sending me to my studies, it was in the hall that the answer reached my ears. 

I had heard it before, but couldn't believe it. How could my noble, God fearing but loving father, the King, act so low? Degrading himself to nothing short than a dog.

Yes, my father bedded a lowly wretch who was wrongly named. Named after the blessed virgin, she whorse around with many of the men, of the court. She is not the only rat among the corridors. Both men and women all shameless.

I still do not understand why, how could they go to the mass, preach to each other of God's will of running the country when they themselves don't practice it?

Sitting near the door that linked me to their unconscious foolishness, with readied quill and ink, I delight in writing their sins. 

Of course it is princely of me to listen, but my own father and mother's ears are kept invisible to the world, to acting so swift, creating a quick lash through the Tudor gardens, beheading and jailing all the snakes and spiders of the court. 

Soon I realize the time that must have passed. My mother has plenty to worry about, and a tired ill looking girl is the very last thing she needs to hear. How can her only child, though a girl, be seen like this when she's already endured the embarrassment of not weak but dead sons. A dagger within the court, the heart of England. 


End file.
